Poetry
by payroo
Summary: The recently spared Zevran tries to get into the head of Faren Brosca. A few flirtatious overtures are made, but Zevran is only testing the waters; he's far more interested by what makes Brosca tick. There's more than meets the eye to this brutish dwarf


He seemed brutish enough at first. Zevran hated to be racist but he was every bit the archetypal dwarf: short and stocky with more muscle on one arm than Zevran had in his whole body, all the better for swinging his horrid giant axe around. An axe which had just missed decapitating him a week ago.

When the others in their ragtag little team asked him questions, he responded with "Yes" or "No" or "Shut up and keep watching the road." He was not a man to mince his words, this Faren Brosca. It would be easy to pass this off as the famed dwarven efficiency, but upon closer observation Zevran started to think it was nothing of the sort. Faren's eyes were always moving, always darting about, watching for signs of danger, signs of dissent, signs of who-knew-what. His broad shoulders were always tensed, ready to strike out or flee at a moment's notice.

Zevran recognized his anxious paranoia, for to an extent, he felt it in himself. His were the eyes of a man until recently bound and controlled, now free and uncertain what to do with that freedom. It was not in Zevran's nature to pry, but his eyes always wandered back to the peculiar 's'-shaped brand under Faren's right eye, the tattoo that curiously stood out from the rest of the riotous designs etched into his face. This tattoo was narrow and harsh, inked in a dark angry red, quite the contrast against the dull blue blocks that snaked down his forehead, under the blonde stubble that lined his jaw, over his eyelids.

Faren caught Zevran staring (there was very little he didn't catch, he quickly learned) and threw him a death-glare from eyes made all the brighter by the dark tattoos that surrounded them. "Something you need?" he snapped at him over the campfire.

Too late, Zevran remembered the bit of dwarven culture he knew, and realized that Faren wore the mark of the casteless. Those who were worse than slaves. Those who weren't even considered worthy to be slaves.

He still wanted to live, as far as he was concerned, so he played it glib. "Nothing wrong with admiring the handsome face of my benefactor, is there?" Half a lie; Faren wasn't the usual type of man Zevran was interested in, but then again, he did have malleable interests. Never let it be said that Zevran Arainai was close-minded.

The dwarf's eyebrows shot up, wrinkling the tattoos of his forehead. "Is that so," he snorted, but did not sound entirely displeased, and returned to skinning the rabbit Zevran had shot earlier. Definitely brutish, Zevran thought as he watched him impatiently toss aside the knife and rip the pelt off the tiny creature with bare hands and sheer brute force.

Disaster and potential emotional confrontation averted, Zevran gained confidence. "My, but I'm a lucky man indeed. To not only be spared by a benevolent mark, but such a good-looking one too! What say you, Alistair my friend?"

"What?" sputtered Alistair, who had been suspiciously watching the elf the entire time, ensuring that he didn't poison the food, no doubt. "You're _flirting_ with him! Don't involve me in this."

"Is that such a crime?" Zevran mock-sighed. "You Fereldans have such closed minds."

"I'm not Fereldan." Faren's low voice came as a bit of a surprise.

"Oh, does that mean you have an open mind then?"

Faren shrugged, the hints of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was the first time Zevran had seen anything but a grimace or a neutral scowl on his face. He threw the now-skinned rabbit to Alistair. "Since Zevran killed it and I skinned it, you get to cook." With that he stalked off to his tent.

Once his blond head disappeared under the tent flap, Alistair turned in awe to Zevran. "You're crazy! Do you regret that he didn't kill you the first time or something?"

"He's not so stoic as you think, our fearless dwarven leader," Zevran leaned back on the log. "My considerable charms are already beginning to work." As he had hoped, his obnoxious comments were enough to still any further attempts at conversation from Alistair and he was free to contemplate the outside of Faren's tent in peace.

He was an interesting character indeed. When he had interrogated him after his failed assassination attempt and Zevran had told him about how he had been forced into the Crows, there was no pity in his face, though it had shown in abundance on the pretty features of the red-haired bard. No, that was not pity, that was recognition. A bitter tightening of his lips, a slight furrowing of his brow. Zevran had been sure this brutish dwarf was set on executing him, but to his surprise, he had extended his hand, helped him up. He had even seemed taken aback by Zevran's consequent oath of loyalty.

Later, when they were congregated around the fire drinking Alistair's surprisingly tolerable rabbit stew, Faren surprised him again.

"So. What was life as a Crow like?"

Zevran blinked, nearly dropping his bowl of stew. "What's this, my handsome benefactor displays interest in me at last!" He let his mouth run mindlessly as he mentally scrabbled to recover his bearings. "Is it the glamour of the Crows that intrigues you?"

"Glamour? Why would I care about that?" Faren scoffed. "I was just wondering if it was anything like the carta."

Now there was a question that begged to be asked, but Zevran resisted the bait. "Well, being a Crow was glamorous enough. Wine, women, _men_," and Alistair rolled his eyes at this bit, "whatever it is you fancy. But there were rules, so many rules!"

"Huh," Faren tipped the remainder of the contents of his bowl into his mouth in a quick, neat motion. "At least you did get perks. The carta I was in back home didn't give us shit."

Faren spoke of this carta in such a carefully casual that it was plain as day the topic distressed him greatly. He was bluffing with his aces in plain sight.

Zevran had already worked out his next step in this mental game when he stopped himself with disgust. He had indeed been too well-trained, to automatically figure out how to break a weak point he was presented with.

But all the same, he was impressed with Faren. He was evidently used to playing the same kind of mind games employed by the Crows, though he hadn't quite achieved their level of tact. Zevran wondered more than ever what kind of life Faren must have led before becoming a Warden, but he held his tongue. He was all too familiar with the humiliation and helpless rage that inevitably fell to the loser of this subtle waltz.

Faren took first watch as usual, leaving Zevran alone in his tent to ponder and speculate as he sharpened his daggers. If the other party members had noticed this darkness in their fearless leader, they did not show it. Alistair seemed to like him well enough, though he knew to keep his distance when the dwarf had an especially prickly expression on his tattooed face. Leliana showed him the same cheerful benevolence she gave to all, though Zevran wondered if this was because she had her own demons to hide. He could tell that she was a bard from the way she fought, the patterns behind the missing holes in the history she gave, but as with Faren Zevran decided it was best to let sleeping dogs lie, for now anyway. And from what he could read from his emotionless face, Sten seemed to respect the dwarf enough, despite being more than twice his height.

As Zevran slipped out of his tent to take over, he heard the faint sounds of something lyrical. A light cadence, a delicate rhythm. He could hardly believe his ears, but it sounded like… _poetry_?

The words were in the common tongue, but Zevran recognized them as translated from an old Elvish poem that had been in vogue among the nobility, ironically enough. The subjects it treated were generic enough as to have wide appeal, he supposed: love, longing and the like.

He started a bit when he realized those delicate words were being read in Faren's deep voice. It was like watching a boulder crushing a tiny flower – exhilarating in its own way. Zevran crouched nearby and watched.

Faren had a small leather volume in his coarse hands, the dainty pink at odds with his greys and earth-tones. He twisted his mouth sarcastically when he had finished, but there was something wistful in his eyes.

Zevran chose this moment to tactfully rustle the bush he was behind and to casually walk in as if nothing had happened. Faren barely concealed a jump of surprise, hastily stowing the book away into his pack.

"Lovely night, no?" Zevran tilted his head back, pretending to regard the waxing moon while keeping the corners of his eyes fixed on Faren. "I always feel sorry for the moon in this awkward state, though. No poet writes about the gibbous moon; it's always crescent or full. Ah, but I suppose that means little to you, coming from Orzammar and whatnot."

Faren still held himself stiffly, though he did spare a glance upward. "Yeah. It's not like we can see the _sky_ from underground," and he said the word with such revulsion that Zevran could not help but grin a little. Some dwarven stereotypes were true after all. "How do you even sleep at night? All that sky and moon hanging over you, like they'll cave at any moment."

This stodgy dwarf side of Faren was oddly endearing. It was a lighter sort of worry than the dark shadows that normally plagued his eyes. Zevran found it positively cute.

"Mm, I can relate," he sighed, sitting a comfortable distance away, but close enough to be companionable, or something more. "To find oneself in a foreign land under unexpected circumstances is no easy task. I cannot help but think of my Antiva City, and unfair as it is, compare that jewel to this Fereldan mud."

"Orzammar's not exactly a jewel, 'specially where I ran," Faren snorted, but some of the stiffness faded from his posture as he relaxed into the flow of their conversation. "Can't imagine your city is much different from here though."

Zevran pressed a hand to his chest in mock horror. "You wound me! Antiva to Ferelden is like the day to the monstrous night!"

"Surface is surface," came Faren's stubborn reply but he looked intrigued now.

"Ah, you're making me wax poetic." Zevran prayed that Faren would catch the bait he so daringly cast.

"Figures you'd be into poetry," Faren harrumphed. His interest was almost painfully obvious now.

"Oh, are you a poet yourself?" Here Zevran held his breath. Chances were good Faren would realize he had been eavesdropped on and bludgeon him to death.

"No, not me," Faren said far too quickly. "It was my sister Rica. She had to learn all this Elvish stuff so she could… mingle."

Zevran tactfully did not press the point. He leapt onto the other opportunity, however, with both feet and closed eyes. There was no going back now.

"Ah, too bad, too bad, for there is a delicious poem that I simply must share with someone."


End file.
